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AT 10.35pm on Wednesday, in formation with three bodyguards, Roman Abramovich strolled across the Stamford Bridge turf. He paused to read a text message before glancing up, his gaze lingering on the deserted seats of the Shed End, its blank jumbo screen and the empty goal into which Andres Iniesta had scored. Abramovich walked on. What did he think when he paused? On that, everything, for a football club, depends. Because only an hour after Iniesta had wrecked blue hearts, Chelsea had their most important player on the pitch.

Like a masochist with a tool box and a gift for lateral thinking, Chelsea keep coming up with strange new ways to torture themselves in the Champions League. Wednesday was every bit as wince-inducing as the penalty shootout in last year's final and worse than the agonies of Anfield in 2005 and 2007.